Eyes Wide Shut
by Ashfae
Summary: Sequel to For Your Eyes Only. M for adult themes, NSFW.


Anders manages to avoid her for a week. Not easily - there are always things that need to be done around Kirkwall, and he can't say no when she comes to ask for his assistance. He owes her too much for that, and it would make it very obvious that something has changed. Which is the last thing he wants because then she might ask what, and then why, and he'd rather the Maker strike him down with lightning on the spot than have to explain. But when they're travelling he manages to be talking to Varric or Isabela or even, Andraste have mercy, _Fenris_, rather than her.

He can't look at her without feeling his ears burn. And he can't help but look at her. He can only pray his desire - his _obsession _- isn't written on his skin. Thankfully no one's commented on it, which is his only comfort. Nor does anyone comment on the sudden distance he's trying to place between them since...what he heard. Perhaps she hasn't noticed.

Perhaps he imagined it.

He knows he didn't.

At night his fantasies are stronger than ever, worse than ever. It was bad enough when he knew what sounds she made at the height of passion, even if he wasn't directly involved. Now that he knows what her voice sounds like saying _his name_, husky and sated...

It undoes him. It terrifies him. And he wants to hear it again like he's never wanted _anything_, with the sole exception of wanting to hear her _screaming_ it at the moment of climax. That, he wants even more, just the _thought_ of it...nights find him lingering outside her estate, trying to convince himself by turns to go in and confront her (inconceivable) or to go away and forget what happened (impossible), until it's nearly dawn and he stumbles back to the clinic, where he completely fails to sleep. Nothing helps. He can tug himself until his hands are numb, and it brings no relief at all. He flounders through the days as best he can and then inevitably the night will find him again outside her house, wracked with indecision and hunger, to repeat the cycle again.

After a week, something different happens. While Anders paces the alleyway behind the back door...the back door opens. He spins, trying to come up with some plausible reason for why he's here in the middle of the night, then abandons it when he sees Sandal's confused face peering outside. Sandal's expression turns immediately to delight on seeing him. "Hello!" he whispers happily, opening the door to let Anders in, as he's done most nights for...Anders doesn't really want to think about that.

Anders hesitates, but explaining to Sandal that things are different now and trying to leave would be...difficult. And would probably draw unwanted attention. He goes through the motions, quietly thanking the young dwarf and sneaking his reluctant way through the house. He stands for a long time before Hawke's closed bedroom door - not listening, just frozen - before taking a long, slow breath and moving forward. He lifts a hand to knock. Then lets it fall, cursing himself silently for his cowardice even as he reminds himself, no, he can't do that, can't be with her as he wishes, even if she might wish it also. It's too dangerous, for both of them, and he should go.

He takes another step forward, towards that so-convenient crack where the door hangs tilted in the frame, and looks inside.

She's sitting on the floor, leaning back against one of the bedposts and facing the fire, as she always seems to do; it places her perfectly in profile and he can see every glorious inch of her. She's not naked this time; she's wearing a dressing robe made of some light blue fabric that he suspects might be silk. He also suspects it must feel like heaven against bare skin. The suspicion is borne out by what he sees; her eyes are closed, and she's running her hands lightly over her arms and legs, pressing the fabric against herself. Her mouth quirks in a smile whenever she finds a sensitive spot - and Anders knows all her sensitive spots now, after weeks of observation - and she catches her breath outright when one hand slips down to her inner thigh, just a brief, teasing dart. Anders' own hands twitch and he knows he's lost, again, still, always.

She takes things agonizingly slowly this time, endless fluttering soft touches, teasing herself without mercy. The silk fabric flirts with her skin as much as her own hands do, he can tell, and aches to know what it would feel like against his own rougher hands, what her reaction would be to the combination of friction and softness if it were his fingers pressing the cloth instead. For her it's a slow build of pleasure; for him an agonizing delay as he slowly undoes the laces on his trousers, shoves his smalls out of the way as much as he can, and watches, moving one hand down and forcing it to just hover over his already painful erection, because he can't touch himself until she's closer, until _she's_ ready. His free hand is clenched by his side, pressing _hard_ against his thigh, and then something cold and wet touches it.

Anders looks down.

Hawke's mabari is sitting next to him, looking up with an entirely too intelligent expression. The dog's ignored Anders all these past nights, aside from a brief look or tail-wag as acknowledgement of his presence; Anders had assumed it was because he's known and trusted as a friend to Hawke. But suddenly he has the sickening feeling that the dog knows _exactly_ what he's been doing, what he's been thinking.

Slowly, carefully, Anders withdraws his trapped hand from his trousers, holding it up before him as though in truce. "Sorry, boy," he whispers, the sound barely a breath. "I'll just..." He gropes for words, a small part of him incredulous that he's trying to figure out how to apologize to a _dog_ for being an immoral pervert. "Um. I'll go. Sorry."

As Anders steps forward, the mabari moves to counter him, blocking the path. His tail is not wagging, his ears are back, and very, very low comes the hint of a growl. No more than a vibration, but the disapproval is very clear. Anders steps to the other side, and again the mabari counters it, and Anders' heart sinks and races at the same time as he realizes he is stuck and will be found mauled to death outside of Hawke's bedroom with a raging hard-on and absolutely no excuse and he can only hope that Varric doesn't publish it.

The mabari moves forward, the growl coming a bit louder, and Anders automatically steps back. Another step, and another.

Then, with no warning, the dog _leaps_, throwing his considerable bulk against Anders, who staggers and falls backwards. Against Hawke's bedroom door.

Which opens inward, and he falls hard to the floor with a hundred pounds of mabari on his chest, driving the breath out of him.

There is a moment that seems to last forever as Anders stares up at the mabari - whose tongue is lolling out of his mouth, the dog is clearly _very_ pleased with himself - and Hawke stares at the pair of them, and he has _absolutely no idea_ what to say even if he did have any breath to speak with yet, and desperately wishes the Maker _would_ strike him down with lightning on the spot. That would _definitely_ be a mercy, in the circumstances.

"Good _boy_!" Hawke finally says, standing up and walking over, eyebrow raised and smile quirked. She reaches down and pats the mabari on the head; the short tail wags violently in response. "I know someone who's getting a _heap_ of steak tomorrow for dinner. Clever, _clever_ boy." She looks down at the trapped mage and openly smirks as she looks him up and down. "I think you'd better get off of him now though, don't you?"

The mabari obediently steps off of Anders, which is a huge relief, though it does nothing to ease the growing panic. Anders just _knows_ his face must be flaming red, and fucking _knickerweasels_ his trousers are still loose and undone and his smalls are still pushed out of the way which means his cock is clearly on display and _Maker please just kill me now._

Hawke bends down next to her dog, rubbing his ears. "Now boy, would you like to do me another favor? If you do, I promise a half-dozen already cracked marrow bones along with that steak. All you have to do is wait in the hallway and make sure no one comes in _or goes out_ without my permission. Deal?"

The mabari barks once, tail still wagging happily, and bounds into the hallway where he assumes a guard stance. Hawke stands and closes the door, then turns to look at Anders, still smiling. "Now," she says, voice low and husky. "Just what should I do with you, hmm?"

Anders leans up on his elbows. "Um. I can..." He fumbles with words while at the same time trying to fumble with his clothes. "Explain. Or..."

Hawke walks towards him, hips swaying, and kneels above him. She's_ straddling him_, Maker's breath, and he can feel the heat of her _right next to his cock_ and she's not wearing smallclothes and if he weren't frozen solid with humiliation and terror and a thrill of delight he refuses to acknowledge he'd be groaning at the tantalizing nearness of her. "Believe me," she purrs. "No explanations are necessary. Or wanted." She adjusts her positioning so her lower legs rest on the ground, very obviously not in the least put off by his appearance. In any sense. She reaches out one hand and trails a finger down his the rough line of his chin, still wearing that knowing smile.

"I can't-" Anders starts, then fumbles, trying to gather the shreds of his conviction and failing. "You don't-" Oh sweet Andraste, if he shifts even a little bit he could be..._no, no, wait_. "We shouldn't-"

Hawke rolls her eyes and places a finger on his lips, blocking his unformed protests. "Let's make a deal, shall we?" she says. "For a few hours, we'll pretend. We won't speak about any of it." She leans forward to rest her weight on her arms, and her breasts just barely brush his chest, and even through the robes it's maddening. She places her hands on either side of his head, and her lips hover just above his mouth as she whispers, "This can be just another fantasy," and kisses him.

For a moment the sweetness of it holds him still, and then Anders...gives in.

With a sound that's half gasp and half growl he grips her shoulders and lets his mouth devour hers. She meets and matches his ferocity, gasping between frantic kisses as his hands move to touch all of her, as much of her body as he can reach from this position, and then this position isn't enough and with another low growl he rolls them over until he's on top and can feel his entire body against the glorious length of hers and it is even more wonderful than he'd imagined. He moves his mouth to taste her neck, alternating kisses and bites. One of his hands is between them, cupping her breast, thumb brushing over the nipple and exulting in the way her body shudders as he does it; the other is tangled in her hair, holding her head back. Her hands are feverishly running all over him, trying - largely without success - to tug his robes off, or occasionally finding the bits between where she can reach through to skin, or at least fewer layers of clothing.

Finally, with a groan of frustration, she pushes on his chest, and he obeys at least enough to go to his knees but can't make himself move away from her completely, and while she sits up and fumbles with buckles and buttons he distracts himself with confirming that yes, that robe is silk, and yes it feels amazing on his skin, and from the erratic sound of her breathing as he fondles her breasts and arms through it, it must feel amazing on her skin as well. But mouth on skin is better, and he returns to her neck, running his lips along the line of her chin and then tugging on her earlobe with his teeth.

She hisses with mixed pleasure and frustration, hands slipping and losing track of what they were doing. "Maker _dammit_, Anders-" she starts, cursing his clothes, but he stops her with a kiss; if they start speaking he'll have to start thinking again, and he really does not want that, doesn't want to lose this incredible dream they're in. She kisses him fervently but at the same time takes his hands and moves them to his own chest, making her intentions clear. He helps her undo his robes and she pulls them off, hands immediately slipping under the loose shirt he wears and pressing against all the skin she can reach, and now it's Anders' turn to gasp with pleasure. She takes advantage of the broken kiss to tug the shirt over his head completely, then launches herself back at him.

Between their various exertions, her dressing gown has come undone in the front, and he slips it off her entirely so that finally they're skin to skin, breast to chest, and they overbalance and he falls on his back again but this time with a much, much more pleasant weight holding him down than that damned mabari. His skin is on fire wherever she touches him, wherever he touches her, he can't get enough. His right hand moves between them again, brushing briefly against her breasts and then insinuating itself between her legs, and she lets out a high-pitched keen as he finds her clit and tugs on it, then slips two fingers inside, thrusting quickly and firmly as his thumb takes over on her clit, making small circles. She has to stop kissing him at that because all she can do is lie on his chest, making mewling, desperate sounds, hands scrabbling fitfully against his shoulders, and it's everything he wanted and _not enough_.

He flips her on her back and moves down, spreading her legs with his hands, and his tongue flicks out to taste her and she _shrieks_ his name, _Anders_, and his eyes close with bliss at the sound of it as he works with tongue and fingers, and one of her hands is clawing at the carpet and the other is buried in his hair and then she's tugging at it, trying to pull him back towards her. He resists, not wanting to stop, but she's insistent and finally he gives in and covers her body with his again, covers her mouth with his. He knows she can taste herself on his tongue.

She pulls impatiently at his trousers, and he helps get the damned things off, and then finally, _finally_ they're both completely naked, nothing between them but skin and fire and sweat. This time it's her hand that reaches between them and grasps his cock, and clever fingers slide firmly up and down the length, and this time it's him that has to break off the kiss because he can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but feel. Then she moves in a particular way, guiding him, and with a sigh he shifts position and slowly, carefully, enters her.

They stay paused there for a moment, his hands cupping her head, her hands resting on the small of his back, poised, both of them breathing hard. Anders rubs his thumb on her forehead, staring deep into her eyes. She smiles brilliantly at him, and that's all the encouragement he needs, and he pushes in. Her eyes close and her head tilts back and her mouth opens with pleasure, and for him it's an ecstatic friction, the wetness and heat of her surrounding him, and it takes all the concentration he can muster not to lose control. _Not yet, not yet, not yet_ chimes in his head as he keeps thrusting - still slow, still deliberate, he refuses to let himself come until she has - and then she's mewling again, begging, whispering his name over and over and _over_ as her legs wrap around his waist and he thrusts harder, faster, _not yet not yet not yet_, more, and then she throws her head back and her mouth opens in a silent scream and he can feel her pulsing around him and he loses it, a few more hard thrusts and he buries himself in her, his own hoarse crying of her name lost in her neck as his climax follows hers.

They lie there spent for a long time and much too short a time. Her fingers trace patterns on his back. Anders doesn't want to move again, ever, even though this position is going to get uncomfortable for both of them eventually and he think he might have rug-burn on his knees. Why in the hell didn't he at least get them into the bed while they did this? He'd always intended their first time to involve more time and attention, hours of driving her wild with desire and making it very, very clear exactly how much he cherishes her. Except that there wasn't ever going to be a first time together, because...he swallows hard as all his conflicting emotions begin to spill back into him.

Hawke must feel his mood changing, because she turns her head and brushes a kiss on his cheek. "Come to bed," she whispers.

They withdraw from each other and untangle. He makes a half-hearted, abortive move towards his clothes, but she still has hold of one of his hands and pulls him to the bed, pulls him down beside her, and he follows. The damage is already done, after all. He's broken all the promises he made to himself not to give in to the temptations she offers. She might have said earlier that they can pretend this is a fantasy, but...she's lying in his arms, facing away from him so they're spooned together, and her hand clasps his where it rests on her bare stomach. As if sensing his thoughts, she squeezes that hand, and he hides his face in the back of her neck and breathes in the scent of her, as though the answers he needs are waiting there.

"I know you love me," she whispers, her voice no more than a breath. He could be imagining it. He isn't, and shivers, clutching her closer. "In the morning, if you need to pretend this never happened, that's what we'll do. You don't have to say anything." A pause. "But I know. I always have."

He opens his mouth to answer her, then closes it, because he can't. The words block themselves trying to come out of his mouth. He doesn't even know what he wants to say. He should warn her one more time, he knows, even though it's much too late for warnings. _Don't let me love you._ He nuzzles her shoulder. _I can't stop this, so you must._ Except that she clearly won't, he's never been able to convince her otherwise. _I love you desperately_. But he can't tell her that. He _can't._

Hawke rolls over in his arms. It's hard to meet her eyes, but he manages it, wondering how on earth she can be so tolerant of...all of this. She's wearing that half-smile, the one that's part patience and part understanding and part confidence that she knows better than he does, and she runs a hand through his hair as she kisses him lingeringly. "Sleep, love," she murmurs against his lips.

And in time Anders does, with no more words said. And though the next morning she leaves before he does, before he even wakes, he dreams that she kisses his forehead before she goes.


End file.
